Penalty Kill

Jake

Dancing Queen is blasting through the bar, and I'm watching Chirpy dance her heart out in a throng of my teammates and their significant others and dates. That's right—the disgruntled grump herself has been tearing up the dance floor for the past few hours. I've been content to watch from the booth that she's long since abandoned, leaving me and a few other stragglers—a couple of defensemen and our goalie—to chat, drink, and comment on the various dance moves our buddies are pulling out.

The song switches to Party in the USA, and the whoops and hollers it elicits from the grown men I've played with for years makes our whole booth laugh out loud. Chirpy is included in that sentiment, as she lifts one of her hands above her head and tips her head back like she's howling at the moon.

I shake my head, a smile playing on my lips. The images of thoughts of us nearly kissing before my buddies crashed our outing have been rotating on a never-ending carousel in my mind. I've been sipping on water ever since she started shooting shots—one helluva wildcard on her part, might I add—the conversation at the booth easy between myself and my teammates.

The guys sitting with me aren't ones to pry, and they've been happy to shoot the shit and ask only a few questions about the first girl they've seen me out with since they've known me. They know we met last night, and they know I think she's fun to be around and that I find her incredibly attractive.

What I don't tell them is that I was ready to have a full-blown, R-rated makeout session with her in the booth before they all strolled in. I also don't tell them that I've been fighting with the hard-on in my jeans ever since said near-kiss, and watching her move her hips and ass around with the other girls in our group is driving me right out of my fucking mind. She's been tossing her hair around, running her hand down her neck like she's in a music video. It's hot as fucking hell.

"Chirpy has been busting moves like crazy. Has she taken a break?"

Our goalie, Goolie—a nickname conveinently earned from his last name, Golland—nods his head towards where she's still throwing her body around, sweaty and drunk. Concern paints his face as his brows draw together.

"Not in over an hour," I mused, concern crossing my face as I take in just how uninhibited her movement has become. The song ends, the crowd claps, and there's a pause as a slow song is queued up over the speakers. "I'm going to try and get her to hydrate."

I give Goolie a pat on the shoulder as I get up and make my way through the crowd to where she's chatting animatedly with some of the other girlfriends. Placing my hand on her shoulder, I pat her a few times to get her attention. She whips around, blonde hair flying, and I watch as it takes her eyes a second too long to focus on me. A Cheshire cat smile spreads across her face as she takes me in, and I can't help but smile back. Her cheeks are fused a bright red, her pupils wide and dilated from the endless stream of drinks she's been enjoying with my teammates.

"Chirpy, this is a slow song. Come on, let's take a break and get you some water."

"Really? It is?"

She looks around, equal parts perplexed and excited. As the notes of Lover sink into her drink-fogged brain, her eyes light up, and before I know it, her hand is grabbing mine and she's tugging me towards the small group of strangers mixed with my teammates who're already slow dancing.

"Oh my god, it's Taylor! Dance with me, Bry."

Hearing her use my nickname for the first time is electrifying. I want to hear it come from her lips over and over again. She has no idea what she's just done to me, and I'm grateful for the music and her buzz distracting her from the feral flicker of lust that crosses my gaze for a fleeting moment.

It takes all of a second for me to blink the sudden heat in my chest and groin away, instead focusing on just how blitzed she's managed to get in her few hours away from me.